


sins of the flesh

by mattmurdck



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: No pairings - Freeform, Sadism, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattmurdck/pseuds/mattmurdck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bullseye loves his job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sins of the flesh

  
_Hey, God. It's me, Bullseye. I know we don't always talk or necessarily get along, but... well, I love ya, God. I really, really do. If it wasn't for you, I guess I wouldn't be walkin' around, right? The whole reason I'm stuck on this grimy Earth is 'cuz of you. So, thanks for lettin' me kick around for this long. Even if I don't tell You, every day I'm thankful I'm still alive._

_Because Heaven knows (no pun intended), I love my fucking job._

* * *

His screams are like a symphony, something so perfectly crafted and realized that only a true master could have ever brought forth those sounds. Of course, he _is_ a master -- of death, of murder, of bashing in skulls and ripping out intestines. Bullseye's specialty is in murder, usually of the kind that requires compensation, but not always. This one will make his wallet fat for quite a while, not that he ever spends any of it. All his money goes to food or rent or weapons; the rest sits in a safe somewhere outside Baltimore, gaining weight and gathering dust. But he still loves the _ability_ to make so much money, to be able to feel it beneath his fingers, to smell that crisp tang of freshly-minted dollar bills. Yes, this target will make him very rich indeed.

He'd kill him, even if it was free.

The target's name is Ryan Andersson and he's a rival of Wilson Fisk's. The Kingpin doesn't like when his rivals overstep their boundaries -- and whoo, Ryan took a _huge_ step and fell right into Bullseye's line of sight. FIsk had only told him that the explosion downtown had been planned and had contained about twenty of his men, and it was all he needed to know. No more details about the actual attack was necessary -- by this time, they both know how Bullseye works. The next two weeks are spent in wait, watching, letting Andersson become comfortable and believe he's safe. It's the look of comfort slowly returning to their face that Bullseye loves to see, itches to watch it spread and then suddenly disappear when they see the target etched into their killer's skull. It's the most gratifying moment a man could ask for; it's nearly sinful in its pleasure.

Not that Bullseye's ever gave much of a damn about sin, but it's the thought behind it that counts, that really riles him up. The wait between contract and execution is one carefully planned, a ritualistic gathering of information and material. Long before he actually goes to see Andersson, Bullseye knows everything about him. He knows where he grew up, his first fuck, that he brushes his teeth twice a day. He knows that Andersson has a wife and a girlfriend and that both are ready to turn over on him at the slightest whiff of cold, hard cash (they do exactly that when he offers them a couple bills), that his mattress is eleven years old, that in the past week he's masturbated three times and to which porno. He knows _everything there is to know_ about Ryan Andersson. And once he knows his target, he knows how to kill them.

It starts with a blindfold. Bullseye doesn't even need to kidnap the poor bastard; it only took an hour to arrange all of his pals to go to Florida for an extended vacation and to jab screwdrivers into the throats of all his body guards. The black silk, bought especially for the occasion, blinds Andersson when he finally wakes up from his sedative, naked, and all he can hear is an unfamiliar voice. When Bullseye speaks, he can hear the smile.

"Sleeping beauty awakes! I _never_ thought that sedative would wear off. I was about to just leave this for the coppers as a suicide, but lucky me. You've decided to join the party." The mob boss twitches and the hard knot of rope slides against his flesh, holding it, secure. The grin in Bullseye's voice only grows wider, chased with a laugh that is not fully sane. "You really think I'd go through all this effort and not tie you up, buddy? You really think I'm that fuckin' stupid?"

Only silence, punctured by wordless whimpers, responds. Bullseye grabs the man's face with fingers rough with callus, straining Andersson's entire body when his face is dragged forward. "I said... Do you think I'm fuckin' _stupid?_ " There is metal in those words and they slice Andersson open like a pig, who tries to shake his head against the grip holding him, lips dry and quivering with fear.

"N-no, no, of course not. You're not stupid.

"You're just a lunatic."

Now is when Bullseye finally pulls off the blindfold, letting Ryan Andersson see his face for the first time. In the dull light of fading lamp, the scars on his forehead cast dark shadows against a face, stretched wide with a skeletal grin aimed at the mobster. In the mercenary's hands, he holds a pair of scissors and a long, thin needle for sewing. No thread is to be found. "And you're boring. Glad we're on the same page." Bullseye doesn't wait, reaching down between them and grabbing onto Andersson's left hand, tied at the wrist to his wooden chair. "I suppose you don't need these anymore, right?" The lunatic asks sincerely, looking up to catch the fear stricken on the other man's face before slipping the dull blades of his scissors on either side of the man's index finger and pressing down -- gently, enough to leave a white ring of blood chased away but not enough to bring it to the surface. "I'll do ya a favor and get rid of all your useless bits." The weight on the scissors shifts and within half a second, Andersson's index finger falls limply to the floor, chased by a spray of scarlet blood that spatters the floor beautifully. "Too bad for you that _all_ your bits are useless now. More fun for me, though."

This is the first time Andersson screams, but it will not be the last. To Bullseye's delight, the man's down-right _vocal_ , screaming and moaning and groaning and every little slice, every swell of blood, every single time he jabs the needle into an exposed shoulder or in the fatty flesh of inner thigh. Soon, Andersson is down six fingers -- all of which are arranged neatly on the table right beside his body where he can get a good, long look -- and his abdomen is bleeding heavily, pooling coagulated blood over his thighs, his penis, dripping placidly onto the floor. It's a slow flow, gushing only when the mobster sobs, his salty tears burning down the bulls-eye mark now carved into both cheeks. When there's a particularly brutal episode, Bullseye pats the man on his shoulder, fingers digging into an open wound there that exposes an oozing trapezius, and leans down. Dry lips brush away the tears riddling Andersson's cheeks, and the mercenary smiles.

"Come on, don't cry. Aww, it'll be alright. What, do you not like it? Do you think I'm not good enough at my job?" The final sentence is punctuated with the needle, now slathered in red, trailing down the victim's chest, down, farther still, to prod at a dick half-skinned. Bullseye grins widely. "Don't be such a party pooper. In fact, I'd say you like this. You like being punished, don't you? You were practically begging for it, the way you offed all of Kingpin's men like that. You were _gagging_ for it. Naughty man." The needle twists, pressing hard up against sensitive and flaccid flesh, before Bullseye grows bored and steps back.

"Please, just... just kill me. God, please, just fucking kill me."

The tutting sound that follows is reprimanding. "Let's not get the Big Guy involved in this, huh? You die when I say you die. You cry when I say you cry. You scream when I say you scream." He pauses, as if thinking, blood-stained finger trailing red where it taps along his chin. When it pulls away, the smile on his face is sinister. A steel-toed boot rears back and then crashes with a bondaged shin, cracking the tender bones there instantly. "Scream!" he says, and then repeats the action with the other foot. "And scream again!" The action is repeated, twice, thrice, until alabaster bone juts from crimson flesh. "And again and again and again! Isn't this fun?"

When Andersson doesn't respond, Bullseye grabs the man's face only to have it fall limp in his rough fingers. Brown eyes roll back into their head and the mercenary frowns; unconscious. The fucker passed out from pain. _Bo-ring._ No one's fun if they can feel what's happening to them, if they slip into the body's protective state where pain can't touch them. The damn body is brilliant that way, but it's not what Bullseye wants right now. It's not fun and despite the ethereal array of garnet soaking his clothing and settling in the back of his throat, it isn't enough. Of course, this is just a job, not the people who he'd _prefer_ to be torturing... But all in all, he is severely disappointed.

Ryan Andersson never again regains consciousness. Without preamble, Bullseye jabs his needle into each closed eye socket in quick succession, gushing past the delicate cornea and nerves inside to stab at the grey matter hidden within. When he pulls his needle back, bits of yellow liquid from Andersson's eye as well as brain matter stick to the aluminum; he examines it appreciatively in the dim light before lifting it to his mouth and cleaning it with a long lick of his tongue. Then the needle drops to the ground, clattering there with the pair of scissors forgotten, and the mercenary turns on his heel and leaves. Before he turns out the light to the room, he takes one last look at his death tableau.

Ryan Andersson is naked, covered in blood with his pink intestines peeking out from a slit in his stomach. His head, limps, oozes matter from the twin holes in his eyelids and even from this distance, he can see his trademark cherry-red on either cheek. The legs tied to the wooden chair are mangled beyond comprehension, shins jutting out from the broken flesh where his boots had hit.

Bullseye smiles. "Well, at least I know breaking bones gets a rise outta them. Maybe Daredevil will last longer before he passes out. Hell, he may even last to see his own ribs before he begs for me to kill 'im. Man, I'd love to see _that_..."

The light switches off.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so this has no pairing or anything. It's just Bullseye being scary as fuck. This is sort of old.


End file.
